


All about Shakespeare

by romulus_adhara (orphan_account)



Category: Glee
Genre: Existential Crisis, M/M, a LOT of references, but they're just like props, dead birds, idk - Freeform, what the hell is this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-10
Updated: 2018-03-10
Packaged: 2019-03-29 13:55:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13928484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/romulus_adhara
Summary: Our problem is that we do not know how to forget.





	All about Shakespeare

**Author's Note:**

> i have no idea. i wrote this three years ago. i'm not sure what half the references are about. not beta'd, all mistakes are mine. god, is glee tag even still alive?

Hunter feels like Jon Snow - he knows nothing. He doesn’t know how he ended up here, or what the fuck he’s doing, or how he managed to acquire such a weird companion. The companion reeks of sour milk, cheap whiskey and those disgusting menthols he always smokes. Stupid and too-sweet, Hunter thinks, like some school-girl, Hunter thinks, fuck you and your cigarettes, Hunter thinks.

 

Blaine takes a drag and snorts, telling Hunter that he said that out loud.

 

Hunter jerks his shoulder and asks him what the hell are they doing here.

 

‘Here, on the pier, or here - in the Universe?’ 

 

Blaine’s voice is thick with pathos and unscreamed accusations. He swallows the unfulfilled expectation number forty-nine. _Bring home a cute and polite girl, three kids and maybe a dog, not the guy in worn-out slacks and a tear tattooed on his face, the guy who came into his life and carved himself into his ribs with a green pocket knife._

 

‘I’m not in the mood for your philosophy shit,’ Hunter sighs, tilting his head all the way to his shoulder and pressing his ear to the hickey right above his mole.

 

‘Well, then, you wanted to look at seagulls,’ Blaine shrugs, blowing out a stream of smoke. There’s not a soul here, not even a bird, and the only thing that he wants to look at right now is the aching mark on his right shoulder-blade.

 

He doesn’t really know how he ended up in Hunter's company, nor how he managed to buy a bottle of whiskey with the shittiest fake ID that guy at the store has probably ever seen, nor how he's going to get home. Another question arises somewhere between his lung and his liver, _where exactly is your home_ , but Blaine decides to ignore that in favor of doubting his knowledge of human anatomy.

 

‘Does he love me, or Hunter Clarington?’ Hunter suddenly says somewhere on the left, and Blaine frowns before catching on and getting the reference. He laughs. It sounds dead and depressing. How fitting.

 

"You're not a Broadway star, Hunter, stop it with Miss Channing quotes." He grins bitterly, although involuntarily asks himself the same question.

 

They’re not stars, they’re not ever specks of stellar dust, yet they already have a demons screeching inside and an existential crisis each. This could probably be discussed and explained, - the whole topic of modern teenagers coming into the adulthood already half-depressed and with scars on their wrists and souls, but the topic of Blaine's report is the  aesthetic analysis of "The Colloquy of Monos and Una," so he once again decides to leave his problems for later.

 

Hunter informs him that now the Blaine is the one saying things out loud.

 

Blaine laughs and tells Hunter to go to hell.

 

‘Been there today’, it’s an old comeback but he uses it anyway, taking those girly disgusting menthols from Blaine, ‘then we realised that I despise cheap sentiments, and I was sent away to think over my behaviour.’

 

‘Cut it with the Channing,’ Blaine asks once again.

 

‘Tried. We both keep living,’ Hunter shrugs and laughs like a madman. Blaine turns his head. ‘Sebastian tells me it’s stupid to keep all the warmth inside, for my heart will overflow with rage, and it will consume me. Fucking princess.

 

Blaine is sure it’s another reference, but he doesn’t recognize it and just sighs in defeat. It’s what you get hanging out with Film Department kids - endless references and the all-consuming crisis of your being. He’s majoring in Literature and can talk about Wagner's beauty or Kafka's complexity up to the point someone knocks him out, but it all seems dull and simple when he sees all the looks-touches Hunter and Sebastian exchange when they think everybody’s looking at them. They scream about their love, they’ve fought for it for so long that hiding it seems almost blasphemous. He wants to write them, perpetuate that something they have, something priceless and almost painful to look at, but he’s afraid he’s gonna spoil their poetry with his prose. Blaine prefers to just remain silent and smile silly to himself because those two are perfect.

 

He thinks that there’s something mesmerizing about them - they fight like Tom and Summer while being perfect Tom and Autumn. Blaine blinks and realizes that he caught the habit to compare everything around him to movies. Well, at least he doesn’t quote "Silence of the Lambs" during sex. Sebastian says it's creepy.

 

Kurt sings during sex, and yes, it’s funny and weird at the same time, but who doesn’t have issues these days.

 

It seems like he surrounded himself by the top-notch freaks, separating the regular ones because it seems better - to be the un-weirdest among the un-normals.

 

It's confusing, and he's so young but he feels like an old granny with Alzheimer's. Stumbling on the ruins of expectation number thirty-two ( _become a lawyer_ ), Blaine began to walk along an unfamiliar path, which eventually, in some unknown way, led him to the pier with Hunter Clarington as his company and the pelican corpse three and a half meters from them. Blaine could write a haiku about this. Blaine could devote a whole vers libre to it.

 

Hunter asks Blaine to shut up and stop voicing his thoughts aloud but thinks he could have shot a short film about this. Throw in the hard life path of the poor pelican and an abandoned girlfriend with children - and bam, you're a prodigy.

 

To be completely honest, he would have happily shot a sex-video for his exam. He’s positive Sebastian would love the idea. Blaine laughs loudly and throws a crushed rock into the sea, because yes, again out loud.

 

It's time to go back, one of them says.

 

'You ever think how we're too broken for teenagers of the new generation?' Hunter asks, not completely sure of whom - himself, or Blaine.

 

'I study literature,' Blaine says, as if it explains everything, 'all teens of all generations were too broken. Over time, they grew up and forgot about it, moreover, they forgot about it while still being broken. It's a cliche.'

 

Blaine puts out his disgusting menthol cigarette butt on a grey-green butterfly sticking out of his pocket and licks his lips.

 

\-  _ Our  _ problem is that we do not know how to forget.

 

Hunter throws a hand over Blaine's shoulders and leans against him. He suddenly remembers how he once hated Blaine for the pain in Sebastian's eyes, all the sorrow and regret he could see there when Sebastian told him about his first love. Now they're best friends and keep complaining to each other about everything ranging from their strange, held together with tape and hushed confessions, love lives, to that weird bull statue they saw once in Connecticut.

Everything small is so easily erased from memory when you try to forget the rest. Blaine is right about something. They do not know how to forget. They are only able to create new things, trying to isolate themselves from the old, to barricade it and keep away. The only question is how soon all the cracks in the half-forgotten closet of their minds will get clogged enough so that the past stops reeking of sour milk and mint gum.


End file.
